Unfolding
by The Chainsaw Juliet
Summary: There's a regular customer at her café at 8:15am every morning, every weekday. He watches the people outside, and she watches him and wonders if he watches her too. Grelliam coffee shop AU.


At precisely 8:15am he visited the café every weekday, excluding one day in September when he visited at 8:17am because he'd stopped to return a document folder a lady had dropped on her way out.

Without fail, at 8:15am he would walk in, place his umbrella in the stand and hang his coat before approaching the counter to place his order. She and her brother were sprightly morning larks, but he certainly was not.

One tall, long black, no sugar, and a copy of the morning paper please. Every morning, without fail.

He was always 'well' and 'not much' had been done over the weekend and 'quiet' was what he sought for the upcoming weekend and 'you too' when Grell wished him a pleasant day.

It was that time of the year when it began to snow and oh how she admired the figure he cut in his woollen overcoat and leather gloves and navy cashmere scarf. He would shake the snow from his umbrella outside before placing it in the stand, removing his overcoat and unwinding his scarf to set on the coat-rack before approaching her.

He would sit by the window and read the paper and watch the snow fall and the people walk by, and she would watch him watch them and wonder if he made up stories about the people outside like she did. She wondered if he imagined secret identities and assassins and Faustian contracts and a world of supernatural creatures that whispered into the ears of mere mortals.

She wondered if he was lonely, if he had family, or a lover or lovers or flings, or would ever be interested in a madwoman trapped in the body of a madman whose parents had beaten her and disowned her, and her brother for sticking up for her; a brother who kept silent when she murdered their parents for their…_misgivings_.

She wondered if he wondered about her at all. What did it feel like, anyway, to have someone wonder about you?

His name was William, she discovered one morning when she took his order to his table and read the name on one of his documents. It had been full of numbers and words, alluding to work belonging to an administrator or something else equally dull. He seemed dull, she supposed, and orderly and logical and practical. She wondered if he had a wild side.

On mornings when it was particularly harsh outside, he lingered five minutes longer than usual and wrote in a notebook.

He didn't take sugar in his coffee but she put a teaspoon of honey in his order one morning. A little sweetness to counter the bitterness couldn't hurt him, could it? He'd blinked in surprise and looked at her quizzically but still finished his drink. Though it was mild outside, he stayed five minutes longer than usual and wrote in his notebook.

One day he stayed ten minutes longer than usual, letting the time slip between his fingers as he continued to write on the handmade, leather-bound paper. A glance at the clock on the wall sent him scraping his chair back, snatching his briefcase and coat, and dashing out the door.

He'd left his scarf behind and Grell took it home and pressed her face into the soft cashmere and inhaled the sharp, clean scent of his aftershave and wondered what it would be like to wake up to him in the morning.

He didn't return the next day, or the next, or the week after, or the month after that. Spring lost its charm and her sprightly brother had trouble cheering her up. She wondered if William had moved or changed jobs or lost interest in the café. She wondered if he'd found another café and noticed the barrista noticing him.

She still looked to the door at 8:15am, every day without fail. She wondered if he'd found out about her, wondered if the discovery had disgusted him and compelled him to leave.

Grell thought of hunting him down and cutting him open, and wondered if anyone would mourn him if she killed him so no one else could have him. She wondered if he'd found someone else and she would have to kill her too. She wondered if dear Ronald would finally realize she wasn't right in the head and, sibling or not, have her committed or imprisoned or both.

It was 8:15am, three days into Autumn when he entered the café again. He wore a different cashmere scarf in blue and grey plaid.

"Welcome back."

"Thank you. I'll have the usual, please." A pause. "With a teaspoon of honey, if you will."

"Right away." She smiled, and noticed him noticing her.

"I have a scarf much like that one, but I lost it some time ago."

"Actually, this is your scarf." Grell unwound it from her neck. "You left it behind last year and I couldn't bear to throw it out. Lovely warm scarf and all."

"Of course." He refused to accept it. "Keep it, I have others. The weather's growing colder again and winter will be upon us soon enough."

She nodded and gave him his change, but he didn't return to his seat. Instead he took out the familiar brown leather notebook and placed it on the counter.

"This is for you."

"What is it?" She curiously opened the book and flipped through its cream pages.

"It's a story about a woman who runs a café with her brother." William pointed at a paragraph. "And the time her regular customer was stationed at another campus in Bristol as a guest lecturer."

"What happens in the end?" Grell flipped to the last page and found it empty. William took the book from her hands and his skin was warm to the touch. Opening the book halfway in, he showed her the blank pages.

"I haven't the imagination to write ahead; I only observe." He paused as though gathering courage to be everything but dull and orderly and logical and practical.

"I wondered if you would care to finish this story with me?"


End file.
